And has been through so much more with me,he neglected to add. His mother would not want to hear it. She had always resented his decision to join the military, and she took pride in his position as Captain when she wanted to have a story to tell her friends, nothing more.
Isaac was the golden son… but Isaac was gone, now. No loss had hit Albion harder, to the point where he still had not yet accepted that Isaac was actually dead. He could not get his mind to understand the truth, not really, not even standing in front of the manor that was now his.
“The solicitor, Mr. Henderson, is in the drawing room,” Constance said, her tone clipped. “He has been waiting for you since nine o’clock this morning. I will have the butler show your friend to a guest chamber while you should not delay Mr. Henderson any longer.”
“Do not make demands of me,” Albion said in a firm voice, his eyes hardening. “You are my mother, not the authority in this house.”
She practically recoiled at the remark. “Would you have us lose his services? Isaac never?—”
“Isaac is not here,” Albion interrupted. “Speaking of which, when is the funeral?”
His mother had the decency to blanche. “We had it.”
“What?” Anger jabbed at his chest.
“We did not know when you would return, and as you did not bother to return for your father’s, I assumed you would not hurry to return for your brother’s,” she retorted, no hint of sorrow in her voice, just acid. As if it were somehow Albion’s fault.
Albion closed the gap between himself and his mother, grasping her upper arm a mote too forcefully. “You buried my brother without me?”
“Why, do you think it would have changed anything?” Constance shot back, lip curling. She wrenched out of his grip and smoothed out the rumpled sleeve.
“I will give you some grace because of your grief, but don’t mistake me—I am displeased,” he rasped.
In truth, he was beyond displeased, well into the realm of furious, but to lose his temper would only weaken his position. Cold, calm, and collected tended to work much better in unnerving someone who had wronged him.
It seemed to work, a flustered demeanor jittered on her cool façade. “We can hold another… service for him if that is your will,” she said sheepishly. “But, for now, would you please be so kind as to speak with Mr. Henderson? His patience will not last much longer.”
“I don’t care about his patience,” Albion replied, “but if it means getting everything in order quickly, I’ll see him once I’ve shown Ben to his chambers, changed my own attire, and splashed some water on my face. If he can’t wait that long, perhaps we need a better solicitor.”
He walked past his mother into the house he had actively avoided for years—a manor that now belonged to him. Ben hurried after him, leaving Constance on the front steps, no doubt fuming at the fact she no longer had any control over her youngest son. She was not his General.
* * *
After spending the better part of half an hour refreshing himself and remembering where all the rooms were, Albion found his way down to the drawing room.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Henderson chirped, far too enthusiastic for someone who was supposed to be helping a grieving family. “What a pleasure to see you, at last! I have heard so much about you.”
Albion tossed him a dry smile. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
The apology was an empty one, but the solicitor did not seem to notice.
“Goodness, not at all—I have been well occupied,” Mr. Henderson replied, his mouth twitching slightly. “I know there is a great deal for you to do, so I shall not waste another moment of your time.”
He flipped open a weighty dossier on the drawing room table between the brocade settees that had not been there the last time Albion was.
“It is the usual business,” the solicitor continued. “Details of your income, the rents owed, the tenants and their occupations, and an inventory of belongings, smaller properties, and heirlooms, should you wish to sell anything. Your father himself had very few debts and none of them considerable—most were taken care of by your brother, who I suppose had no time to conjure any debts ofhisown.”
Albion’s eyes narrowed. “No, I suppose he didn’t.”
“But thereisthe small matter of a debt owedtoyour brother,” the solicitor continued obliviously. “Now, that is a considerable debt. An agreement was close to being made when the tragedy occurred, and I took the liberty of asking if the debtor would still consider the same agreement with you. His reply came last night—he would be delighted. Then again, why would he not be when he is ridding himself of his debt in one fell swoop?”
Mr. Henderson laughed. Actually laughed in the face of a grieving man who had no notion of what the fellow was talking about.
“What agreement?” Albion hissed, his temper flaring. He blamed the fatigue of the journey for loosening the tight reins he usually had upon his emotions.
Mr. Henderson blinked, his laughter dying. “He is willing to give his cousin’s hand in marriage in exchange for wiping the debt away. She will come with a favorable dowry, so it is not a true loss.”
Albion had to sit down. A few weeks ago, he had a purpose he cared about, far from the English shores he had worked so hard to escape. Now, all of the things he had sought to avoid were crashing down upon him at once. He would have taken latrine duty over this.
